Prophecy of the Mage
by The Rebellious Observer
Summary: SEX. LOVE. LIES. BETRAYL. DEATH. Homophobes may run away screaming now as there’s also H/D SLASH. Interested? Then go ahead; spare yourself the puzzled glances of anguished curiosity. You know you want to. =o) Click, read, enjoy (and all that jazz).
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I make any money off of it. Quote taken from Microsoft Encarta World English Dictionary.

Reminder: This story has slash of the Harry/Draco variety. This means homosexual relationships, so homophobes may leave now.

"Ring-a-ring o'roses,

Pocket full of posies,

A-tishoo! A-tishoo!

We all fall down."

--Anonymous, 1665?

Nursery rhyme. Based on the symptoms of the Great Plague, which often began with a rash and ended with a prolonged sneezing fit.

The figure sat huddled in the corner of her little cell, rocking back and forth, back and forth, smiling and muttering to herself like a madwoman. This was not unusual for her; after all, she was a madwoman.

 "Yes, yes, I see it, I see how it all unfolds," she whispered excitedly to the air, her greasy, lanky hair falling forward and back, forward and back, over and over again as she rocked in her little corner. 

"No, they wouldn't listen to me…they never listen to me… they'll all die if they don't, though, oh yes they shall, terrible, bloody events…they'll all die if they don't listen to me, yes they shall," she continued, voice growing distressed as her childish sing-song chant went on. The rocking was faster now. Back and forth. Back and forth. 

"I must warn them, but they won't listen…no they shant, never, never, never," she continued. "Must talk to Dumbledore, yes, he shall listen, yes he shall, listen, listen, listen," she cooed, the rocking growing slower and less urgent with each passionate repetition, until it finally stopped. 

The woman's pale, gaunt face abruptly changed into another expression entirely, from being pleased at her decision to becoming calculating and determined. 

"I've got to get out of this shit hole," she said disdainfully, every word perfectly articulated and draped thinly over a hot, burning core of anger and disgust as she cast a speculative gaze around her pristine white, padded room. 

"And I haven't got much time," she muttered.


	2. The Death Messengers

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I make any money off of it. Quote taken from Microsoft Encarta World English Dictionary.

Reminder: This story has slash of the Harry/Draco variety. This means homosexual relationships, so homophobes may leave now.

"In the midst of life we are in death."

--Book of Common Prayer, 1662

_Burial of the Dead_, First anthem.

The cloudy skies of December were gently shifting in a peaceful swirl of mild cerulean, and the newly risen sun hovered in the air outside of Hogwarts. Harry Potter, also known as The Boy Who Lived, found himself struggling not to stare at the celestial image of his archrival, one Draco Malfoy, from his place at breakfast at the Gryffindor table. This proved to be quite an obstacle, however, as Harry couldn't help but notice how the soft, dusky yellow rays of sunshine floated down from the high glass windows of the Great Hall to bathe Draco's fair form in a muted golden glow. The aforementioned Syltherin was still struggling to come fully awake, it seemed, and thus his movements were lethargic and meticulous, though still enviably graceful (like everything he did, whether it was delicately sneering in calculated distaste or precisely arching one perfect platinum eyebrow as he delivered a particularly scathing remark). Harry felt as if he were in a dream, viewing a surreal, unknown world through a murky golden haze. 

He was abruptly shaken out of his silent reverie, however, by the animated chatter of his two best friends, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasly. They were discussing, interestingly enough, the efficiency of various Quidditch techniques. Harry wisely decided not to inquire as to how _that_ discussion got started. He smiled a bit to himself and continued with his breakfast. 

Just then, the post owls flew into the hall in a flurry of feathers and hoots to deliver the morning mail.

Ron, who'd been excitedly discussing the most strategically beneficial placements of chasers just then, suddenly stopped, turning several shades of white before taking on a decidedly green pallor and gasping out a startled "Oh fucking Merlin!" 

Harry simply gaped at him, shocked at his outburst, while Hermione, after a second or two of startled silence, began immediately asking him what was wrong.

But it seemed that Ron wasn't the only person in the Hall acting like this. A quick scan of the roomed showed that almost every Wizard born in the Wizarding World had an identical sick-looking expression on their faces. Most eyes were pasted on a lone raven owl that had just flown in. 

The creature was quite large, roughly about twice the size of a regular owl. It was beautiful as well, with its ebony feathers glistening in the early morning light; its large molten eyes searched the room. 

"What-what is it?" inquired Hermione once again, her tone now subdued and frightened.

"It's a Death Messenger," whispered Ron, his eyes never leaving the flying bearer of bad news. "It's sent to inform people about… about their loved one's death." Ron's strained voice cracked with emotion at this last part of his statement, and he blindly reached out towards the seat next to his, where his younger sister Ginny was seated, and grasped her hand in his own. 

The tension in the room was almost tangible, so thick and repressive that it was virtually suffocating the Great Hall's mealtime occupants. 

Who was the bird looking for?

The question was answered soon enough, as the bird swooped down and dropped the letter previously clutched tightly within its beak onto the plate before a certain Syltherin named Draco Malfoy.

The Hall was deathly silent.

Draco's face remained completely impassive.

Nobody moved.

Abruptly, another Death Messenger arrived, then another, and another, until the whole Hall was filled with them.

One by one, another letter was dropped before Draco, and one by one the birds left.

Draco's face was like stone as he looked at the growing pile of letters before him. 

Finally, the last black owl had gone, and Draco silently stood up and gathered his mail. Not a word was spoken as he swiftly departed to read his notices in peace.

The outbursts of speculative whispers occurred only after he had gone.

****************************************

Draco had woken up that morning unhappy. As this was a regular occurrence in the life of Draco Malfoy, however, it hadn't concerned him in the least, as it wasn't anything particularly remarkable or noteworthy. He'd taken a shower, brushed his teeth, dressed himself in his sleek, expensive school robes (for the Malfoys always bought the best of everything), and done his hair. He'd tiredly trudged to the Great Hall to eat, accompanied by his usual crowd (which consisted of his two dull-witted personal bodyguards, Crabbe and Goyle, the starry-eyed, salivating Pansy Parkinson, and a few select others worthy enough to be associated to the name Draco Malfoy), and sat down to eat, listlessly picking at his food. But none of this was unusual. 

What was unusual, however, was the appearance of a Death Messenger.

In all of Draco's six years of being a student at Hogwarts, he'd never been witness to the coming of one of these magnificent, feared animals.

They were reserved for use only by the Ministry of Magic, and thus were only employed to send Death Notices to the families of members of the Light (aka the Anti-Voldermort) side that had died on a mission. They were also used, though very rarely, to send a Death Notice to "innocent" (technically neutral or against Voldemort in the Magical War) family members (or, lacking that, the beneficiaries) of Death Eaters killed by Aurours.

Draco had looked up with all the rest, and interestedly wondered who the unlucky person was that the owl was so intensely searching for. 

He'd idly wished that it was a Weasly, and promised himself that, whoever it may be, he'd make fun of them later. His father was always so proud of him for exploiting the weaknesses of others. Lucius had always considered this a certain kind of power. And the Malfoys loved power.

 It hadn't occurred to Draco that it might have been him that the owl was to deliver its message to.

He hadn't even had time to comprehend what was going on before he'd found a crisp cream-colored envelope deposited neatly on his scrambled eggs, with more wretched smoky-black birds swooping in, all of which were heading towards…him.

Draco forced himself to breathe normally and keep all of his inner turmoil off of his face as letter after unkind letter was dropped before him.

His palms were sweaty and his heart was beating more quickly than a hummingbird could flap its wings and his stomach felt like it had been twisted into knots, but Draco made use of his extensive lifelong training in proper Malfoy behavior before a crowd and painfully gathered every last shred of self-control that he could muster to stiffly gather up his things and exit the Hall, back straight, head held high, and no expression whatsoever in his handsome face. Well…no expression except his eyes.

An observer, upon closer inspection, would find that Draco's usually cool, clear gray eyes were clouded with repressed emotions and obscured by welling tears.

But no one saw that.

No one ever saw Draco Malfoy cry.


	3. The Unexpected Visit

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I make any money off of it. Quote taken from Microsoft Encarta World English Dictionary.

Reminder: This story has slash of the Harry/Draco variety. This means homosexual relationships, so homophobes may leave now.

Author's Note: Hello there! In my previous two chapters, I didn't really have anything to say, but (yay!) now I do. I'd like to give a big "thank you!" to Villain, my first reviewer, whose spectacular review made my day and caused this chapter to be posted so quickly. Er…I'd also like to mention that, despite these rather morose quotes in each chapter, I'm really not all that gloomy or introverted (though I can be, at times…#looks around# What? It's a teenager's prerogative to be moody. =o). I'd also like to assure you that, yes, the _really_ interesting things are still to come.

"A man's dying is more the survivors' affair than his own."

--Thomas Mann, _The Magic Mountain _(1924).

Albus Dumbledore was a powerful wizard, but this is certainly not to say that he was all-knowing or omnipotent in his brilliant eccentricity. He certainly hadn't expected a visit from a newly-escaped patient of a Mental Institute.  

Perhaps his unusual, less observant behavior could be attested to the fact that he was greatly disturbed by that morning's tragic episode in the Great Hall. Despite his numerous spies and contacts in the Wizarding World, he hadn't yet been informed of the deaths of one of his schoolchildren's (a man of his age could only think of the students as being just that--children, almost ready to step out of the protection of Hogwarts, but not quite yet) parents. Draco Malfoy, Dumbledore knew, had at least some goodness inside of him, buried deep inside him under layer after cultivated layer of breeding, class, and snobbishly superior disposition established after years of careful training and refinement; if this was not the case, Harry potter would have been long-dead, struck down by his rival with the Killing Curse. Perhaps this was merely Draco's sense of self-preservation at work… but Dumbledore preferred to think otherwise. He was deeply saddened, for he sympathized with the child's loss, and was furious at the Ministry for not informing him of the impending death notifications beforehand, so that he could arrange a more private setting for the young Malfoy that would let him grieve without the astonished, pitying eyes of the entire population of Hogwarts focused intently on him. 

Even though these emotions raged strongly within the esteemed Headmaster, he still had enough rational thought to analyze the situation critically, and take the time to consider all of his observations on the matter thoroughly. 

Why had there been so many notices? The Malfoys were not a large family, having only Lucius, his wife and son, and a few other estranged, distant members in that haughty Blueblood line. Could this morning's scene have all been a scam, a sinister machination of the much-feared Voldemort? But, if so, to what end? None of it made any sense.

With these concerning matters piled so heavily on his mind, in addition to all the many other pressing matters requiring his attention, it was completely understandable that Dumbledore didn't immediately realize that there was another presence in his office.

It took him a full thirty seconds for him to find this out, actually.

She was standing quietly in a corner, hidden in the gloom-ridden shadows, which remained dark and dreary despite the golden sunlight drifting lazily through the arched windows in the room.

He'd reached his desk and was already seated in his chair, ready to tackle the day, when he felt the prickling sensation on the back of his neck that screamed that he was not alone. His normally twinkling eyes darted to the aforementioned corner, and the woman who stood there, waiting for recognition in undemanding silence. 

_Who are you? What are you doing here?_ he wanted to ask. Instead he calmly addressed her from his desk, gently ordering the vague blob of dark hair and pale skin in the ragged white dress to go on and show herself, for she was obviously there for a reason, however odd it may be (and Dumbledore had heard many odd reasons before then).

She did so, gracefully gliding towards the middle of the room to address the old wizened man before her.

Dumbledore gasped as he recognized the dirty, untidy girl.

"Doncenella?" he questioned in disbelief.

What was she doing here?

And was that just his imagination, or did that dress have dried bloodstains on it?

"Yes," she said. "It's me." 

As she came nearer, he realized that those were definitely dried drops of crimson on the frayed white dress, ripped, as it was, in places, and darkened by mud and dirt in others. Her face had recent scratches as well, no doubt attained while fleeing through the woods that bordered her home of the last ten years. 

The girl's sudden appearance was certainly unexpected, and something Dumbledore didn't want to deal with right now. Probably not ever.

She took in his shocked expression and, discerning the reasons behind it, took it upon herself to clarify the situation (which was only proper, as the conversation could not proceed if Dumbledore had no inkling of what in the name of Merlin was going on).

"I assure you I am not an angry ghost, come to haunt you from hither to Hell for your past misdeeds," she said wryly, a small half-smile on her face. "I've escaped, as you most likely can tell from my unlovely appearance," she continued. This gross understatement brought forth a bitter chuckle from the girl. "Not that I've had time for loveliness in my life," she commented, a trace of underlying anger and hurt evident in her voice.

Dumbledore looked ashamedly at his desktop, unable to meet the accusation in her eyes.

"But we've no time to discuss these things," she said shortly, her tone abruptly turning businesslike. "I must speak to you about a very important matter. I have vital information concerning Voldemort's uprising, and you're the only one I can turn to…" 

The sentence drifted off and she looked at him nervously, waiting for a response.

"Why do you think I'll believe you? What makes you think I won't inform the Institute that you're here, or let them take you away?" he asked.

"You have to believe me," she said, an intense edge of desperation tingeing her voice.

Dumbledore was silent.

"Damn you, you spiteful old man!" she cursed, enraged. "You still blame me for her death, don't you? Goddamn you, she betrayed you, left you in the dust, and yet you still blame _me_ for what I did unknowingly did to her when I was seven?!" she screeched.

"She was coming back to our side…she was going to leave him, take you, and raise you how you should have been raised," he whispered brokenly.

The fight drained from her and all that was left was anguish and anger as she whispered, just as softly, "I was _seven_. _Seven!_ I didn't know any better. Don't blame me for my parentage. I didn't choose Voldemort to be my father. It wasn't me who made her marry him!" She took a moment to compose herself, and continued, this time more calmly. "It wasn't me who chose the other side," she said. Tears slowly began to obscure her vision and, horrified, she hastily wiped them away. 

"I know. I know, Doncenella. Please, understand…I couldn't deal with you. I wasn't ready. I'm still not ready, if truth be told."

"Yes, I used to think that it was best to tell the truth," she said, turning away to look at the sun as it climbed up the blue sky.

"After that year, I reconsidered." she said softly.

There was silence for a time before she broke it.

"Ten years. Ten fucking years and not a word, not a visit, nary a sign to say that someone out there cared. _Ten years_, damn it!" she said, voice slowly gaining volume until she was screaming at him again.

"I suppose I deserve this," he said after a few moments.

"You damn well do, but that's not why I'm here," she said.

"I'd gathered that," he said, still speaking gently as so not to disturb her again. 

"Of course you did, I'm the one who bloody told you," she snapped.

"I came here because I've seen a Prophecy. For some unfathomable reason, I actually give a shit about what happens to the World, both of them, and so I'm going to help." she continued.

At Dumbledore's skeptical look, she once again grew angry.

"I may be crazy, old man, but I'm always right," she hissed defensively.

"You don't have to tell me that. I've already seen the accuracy of your predictions, remember? I also recall the results that came about from sharing those insights," he said sharply, the conversation bringing back too many unwanted memories.

Stung, she retaliated. "Fine, then. Your precious Potter can rot in Hell, then, for all I care!" she spat angrily.

"What about him?" he asked, alarmed.

"I thought you didn't want to know," she said.

"Just tell me, girl," he said urgently.

"Why is it that you can care so much for this Potter boy?" she asked, hurt.

"Why are you so quick to jump in to help him, huh? _Why?_ You never even came to visit me, your own _Granddaughter_, but you treat him as if he was your son!" she said heatedly, trying to push away the pain of being rejected.

She knew that she should be used to that pain, since that horrible day ten years ago, but she never was.

"Just tell me what you know," sighed Dumbledore wearily.

"Fine, then," she said, snarling before continuing.

"But first, I have some conditions." 

Author's note: "Doncenella" is pronounced "Don-see-nay-ah"


	4. Demands and Explanations

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I make any money off of it. Quote taken from Microsoft Encarta World English Dictionary.

Reminder: This story has slash of the H/D variety. Homophobes may leave now.

Author's Note: I'd like to say thank you to Villain (I hope you feel better, and I think that your reviews more than do justice to this story; they're fabulous! =o) and Morien Alexander (biting your fingernails in anticipation? I'm flattered!) for their magnificent feedback. =o)

"Death is the greatest evil, because it cuts off hope."

--William Hazlitt, _Characteristics_, 1823

Harry didn't know what to think.

Perhaps a more accurate statement was that he wasn't sure how to feel about what had happened that morning in the Great Hall.

It wasn't every day that you saw someone get word that their entire family was dead, and the fact that Harry wasn't exactly sure how he felt about this particular person only made the situation even more complicated and bothersome.

Even though he knew he should be gloating and pleased at the news that one of the people he most despised had just lost everything important in life, Harry didn't feel that way. He simply couldn't. He knew what it was like to feel like you were alone in the world…he knew what it was like to feel as if no one cared. He'd lived like that for many years, until that glorious time came when he'd been informed of his remarkable heritage and Wizarding roots, and made the journey into another world, and a safe haven…Hogwarts. The only place Harry would rather be was in The Burrow, the dwelling-place of his best friend Ron and his large, but nevertheless enchanting, family. 

But Draco Malfoy didn't have a Burrow, and Harry got the distinct impression that Hogwarts wasn't a place that the pale young man enjoyed staying at.

Hogwarts was, after all, the site of every embarrassing situation and foiled plan that Malfoy had ever known, all due to the miraculous luck and wit of Harry Potter himself.

Harry knew he should be at least a little pleased that his rude, malicious enemy had at long last gotten his due, but, in the absence of that feeling, he was left with only pity and understanding…and the overwhelming need to follow Draco from the Hall and sweep him into the warm comfort of his arms, to try and take all the pain away.

He raven-haired boy knew that this was not how one was supposed to feel about one's enemy, but he couldn't help himself.

There had to be some hope that everything would be all right, that a happy ending was on its way.

Without that hope, Harry would be lost.

He didn't think about the consequences of his actions, or pause to ponder what anybody would think, because Harry Potter was a young man who often acted on impulse, and evaluated his actions at a later time. He'd survived 16 years and counting so far while using this survival technique, and, despite Voldemort's attempts to prove otherwise, it had not yet failed him.

Using this reasoning (or lack thereof) Harry Potter proceeded to go about doing the only thing he felt he could do at the time, and ran after Draco, leaving behind a stunned Ron and a confused Hermione amongst their fellow classmates.

The whispers got louder, and the rumors began flying from table to table.

**************************************************

Dumbledore sighed from his place at his office desk.

"And what exactly might those demands be?" he asked, tired and depressed although it was not yet noon.

"My first term is that you must hide me on these grounds for the duration of my stay, however long that may turn out to be," said the girl shrewdly.

Dumbledore nodded in acceptance.

"Go on," he urged. 

"The second term is that, should the need come about, I may train whomever has the power of Foreknowledge by myself, without any interference from that twittering ninny Trelawney."

"Fair enough," said Dumbledore. "That is, if the student in question gives you their permission to do so," he added.

Doncenella thought about this for a moment before continuing.

"Fine then," she agreed.

"The third and last term is that I must have full access to four students here."

"And who might they be?" inquired Dumbledore inquisitively.

"Harold James Potter, Draconius Evarion Malfoy, Ronald Timothy Weasley, and Hermione Rosemary Granger."

Dumbledore looked appalled.

"Certainly not!" he declared.

"Why not?!" shouted the girl angrily.

"None of them are to get involved with y-- with…this," he said.

            Doncenella glared at Dumbledore.

She knew as well as he did what he'd been about to say.

"So, you don't want them around me, is that it?" she spat vehemently.

"They've all gone through enough. I refuse to add more hardships to their lives," he said solemnly.

"You don't have a choice," was the response.

"Without them, we're all lost. Don't you understand that? If you don't allow me to see them, to talk to them, then all the long struggles and broken dreams and sacrifices will have all been for naught. Can't you see? Those kids are the key against Voldemort!" she burst out.

Dumbledore sat in silence, thinking about what his Granddaughter had just said.

He knew he could put his trust in her power to foresee the future, and he knew that she'd do all she possibly could to keep those kids alive…but still. Still. He knew she wasn't young anymore, that she wasn't the seven-year-old girl that had unknowingly brought about such tragedy, but it was still so very hard to trust her. He didn't know whether he had it in him to put his faith in her when he never had before.  

"Can you ensure their safety?" he asked finally.

"You know I can do no such thing," she admonished promptly.

"But I'll try. You've got to believe that I'll try," she continued, softer now.

He believed her.

He was taking a leap of faith, and risking everything on the chance that he, and the rest of the world, would come out alive in the end, but, damn it, what else was he suppose to do? 

This was the Light's last hope.

"Alright," he said wearily.

"The third term is agreed to."

"Good," she said, relived.

"I'll need to see them immediately. I expect they'll be excused from any classes they might miss today, though of course we'll have work out a schedule of meetings within the next few days--" she began brusquely, but was interrupted soon enough by Dumbledore.

"My dear, I think it would be best if we waited a few days before they meet you. One of them has just recently undergone a great loss, and I feel that it would be best to give him a bit of time before we spring this on him."

"Oh, yes, that Malfoy fellow, correct? He got quite a few unwelcome messages this morning, I believe. But don't worry, that Potter boy went and found him. I suppose I could wait a day or two before I meet him and the others."

"You know about what happened to young Mr. Malfoy's family?" asked Dumbledore quickly. 

"Yes, of course I do. What do you think I am, a novice?" she responded.

"I didn't mean to offend you. I merely thought that perhaps you could enlighten me as to why one of my students received such a vast amount of death notices this morning, with no one the wiser as to how those people came to be…deceased, or even who all of them are," he said, trying not to provoke her.

"Well, I suppose there's no harm in telling you," she began, after a few moments careful thought.

"Understand that this conclusion has been drawn not only from my visions, but from prior knowledge and a healthy dose of guesswork as well," she cautioned.

"Such is always the case when dealing with the future," said Dumbledore somberly.

"Alright then. The Malfoys, as I'm sure you are aware, usually threw annual Christmas parties at their hidden manor. They were really quite huge and splendid, and filled to the brim with prominent, notorious Voldemort supporters. People from all over the world were invited, and, as many guests had underage children not yet allowed to legally practice magic while not in school, quite a few guests would appear early on, before the actual day of the party. Now, if I understand it correctly, Hogwarts has recently made a few alterations to its Holiday schedule, and has not yet let out for Christmas break. This seems to be very fortunate, for, you see, the Ministry received word, from an apparently reliable source, that a congregation of Dark Lords was assembling at the Malfoy Manor to make plans to extend Voldemort's power from where it has been growing in southernmost area of Spain. The Ministry, now under the rule of that upstart Evan Anderson since Fudge's death last month, decided to follow a more violent plan of action than they have thus far. They decided to attack the people in the Manor, as they believed that there were no innocents in the there at that time, and sent several Aurors to wipe them out. The Aurors didn't even have to enter the house. They used a new curse developed by the Ministry. No one's ever seen the likes of it before…if it fell into the wrong hands, the effects can be disastrous. They already have been. I don't know its name…all I know is that it's some kind of vastly amplified _Avada Kedavra _curse that can wipe out many people in one area at the same time. It's sort of like those Muggle, what do you call them…bombs? Yes, bombs, that's the word. It wiped out everyone in the house. _Everyone_. The Ministry of Magic didn't discover their blunder until they entered a few minutes later. There were bodies everywhere."

Dumbledore stared at the girl before him, aghast. 

"Oh my," he said, shocked.

Doncenella was again staring out the window.

"That explanation still doesn't explain why Draco Malfoy received so many letters. Surely the Death notices of the Malfoy's guests would go to their own families?" said Dumbledore after a few minutes.

"That's true," said his granddaughter, sinking into a chair in front of his desk before continuing.

"There's more to the story, you see. Lucius and his fellow Death Eaters had a pact amongst themselves, arranged many years before. There was a sort of…of network, if you will, that bonded the Death Eaters and their families to one another. If a Death Eater died, and that person had no heir to inherit his or her fortune, then all of that money would be split up equally and distributed to all those Death Eaters or their families remaining in the network. There were quite a few Dark Art families in the Malfoy house at the time of the attack…quite a select group; almost every person in the network was there. Draco was the only person in the network not present at that time, actually," she said.

"Meaning what?" asked Dumbledore.

"Meaning that Draco Malfoy has just become the richest Wizard in the world," she replied.


	5. Comfort and Conversations

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I make any money off of it. Quote taken from Microsoft Encarta World English Dictionary.

Reminder: This story has slash of the H/D variety. Homophobes may leave now.

Author's Note: I'd firstly like to thank those who pointed out to me that I'd called Ron a Malfoy in the previous chapter #blushes profusely#. It was a blunder on my part, and #eyes gleam with mischief # though it has oh-so-many possibilities, #sad look appears# that will have to wait for a later date and another story. Well, the mistake (geez, is it just me or am I rhyming an awful lot?) has been fixed, so let me get on with this author's note, shall I? All right. I'd like to thank **Villain** (I prefer to think of you as a devoted reader whose feedback is always delightful, rather than the "annoying prat" that you've dubbed yourself =o), **n/a **(I'm glad you think that this is interesting =o), **ILLK** (I'm sure glad that you did decide to read this, and I'm even happier that you enjoy it =o), **Youko Gingitsune** (glad you approve of Draco's sudden absurd wealth =o), **xanpetuk** (well, here's more =o), **SilvaraMaxwell** (Now that was what I call a spirited review! =o), **Romilly McAran** (I loved the Lucius's bastard son question, and seriously considered implementing that idea rather than fess up and admit to my error. =o) and **Dragonlet **(wow, you think it's very cool? Wonderful! I'm glad that you're enjoying it) for their spectacular input.

Another Author's Note: Because I, for one, am not adverse to putting in plugs to get you to read some of my other works, I'm inviting you to read another Harry/Draco fic by me, called But Deliver Us From Evil. It's actually complete (a first for me!), and, who knows, you might like it. Find it at: http://fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=642153

"Dying

is an art, like everything else.

I do it exceptionally well."

-- Sylvia Plath, Ariel "Lady Lazarus" (1965)

As it were, it took no great stretch of the imagination in the few moments after Harry's abrupt departure to call the infamous "Boy Who Lived" the "Boy Who Was Horribly Embarrassed At His Unthinking Actions."

He was immediately appalled at his ungracious exit from the Great Hall and wondered what had made him think that Malfoy wanted to be comforted by him, of all people. He was, after all, Malfoy's greatest enemy, and the most likely candidate for the title of "The person Draco Malfoy would most like to avoid right now." He didn't even know where the blonde had headed off to, for goodness sakes.

All in all, Harry was horribly mortified at his brash behavior, and found himself too ashamed to reenter the Hall and face his peers after rushing out only a scant few moments before.

_Well, buck it up_ Harry thought to himself. 

_Just take a walk for a while until it's time for your first lesson. Tell Ron and Hermione that you suddenly felt claustrophobic and needed some fresh air. _The impromptu excuse sounded feeble and untrue, even to Harry, and he knew that Ron and Hermione would see right through it.

Harry sighed. 

Even if he didn't know what he'd say to his two best friends when he saw them next, he still felt that it would be good for him to take a short walk to clear his mind. Nothing strenuous, mind you, just a leisurely stroll within the castle to give him time to sort out his thoughts.

The raven-haired boy followed his own advice and hurried towards nothing in particular as he walked down the hall to the left.

After about ten minutes, Harry found himself in front of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, wondering if he should pay old Myrtle a visit.

_Why not? _thought Harry. It wasn't like he had anything else to attend to, and he felt a bit guilty for not coming to visit in two years. That could seem like ages to someone who spent most of her time hanging out in a dank, dreary bathroom.

Harry had his hand on the knob and was just about to enter when he heard a voice.

"Er, are you okay, boy?" said the voice on the other side of the door.

_That was Moaning Myrtle _Harry realized.

Harry quickly let go of the handle and pressed his ear to the door, curious to know what was going on.

"Shut up and leave me alone!" came the instant reply.

The second voice, though thick and hoarse with powerful emotions instead of smooth and chilling as ice as it usually was, was still unmistakably that of Draco Malfoy.

"How can I, when you've been huddled on my bathroom floor for a good while now, reading those letters and then staring off into space looking like you'd just had your heart broken?!" screeched Myrtle indignantly, sounding personally affronted (though, of course, she almost always sounded that way).

"Just--just leave me alone, would you?! Just go away and leave me alone!" said Malfoy, his voice oddly strained and tight, as if he were just barely keeping himself from bawling.

_Which was probably the case,_ Harry realized with a start.

"Fine then, you wretched little creature! You probably deserve whatever it is you got!" she said, and then there was silence, save for Draco's rapid, unsteady breathing.

Harry hesitated where he stood.

Leave or stay? 

The harsh-sounding whimpers coming from the room beyond gave Harry his answer.

"Malfoy?" he asked as he slowly pushed open the door.

"Are you okay?"

As he entered, he saw Draco huddled outside the nearest stall, his back against a piece of flimsy wood paneling and his arms wrapped tightly over his bent legs as he miserably rested his face against his knees.

He looked so very childlike and vulnerable; Harry felt himself remembering many unpleasant times he'd spent locked up in the cupboard under the stairs at the Dursleys, where he'd resorted more often than not to curling up into some variation or another of the fetal position as the hours dragged by in the darkness, waiting for a miracle to happen to make the world right again.

Draco's head snapped up, fair hair flying and gray eyes flashing as he glared at the person who'd dared to intrude upon his mourning.

"Potter," he said frostily, scowling darkly as if the name had left a bad taste in his mouth.

"Come to rub my nose in my loss already, have you? I always knew you'd be a grand Syltherin," he said.

"No, Malfoy. I'm not like you," said Harry automatically, forgetting, as he often did, to think before he spoke.

Draco simply stared for a few moments in mute understanding before tiredly dropping his forehead to his knees once more.

"I--I'm sorry. I meant that I wasn't like _that_, Malfoy, not that I wasn't like…well… never mind. I didn't mean to insult you," he said.

"Whatever," murmured Malfoy.

"Go away," he continued, still not looking back up.

Harry stayed where he was.

            "Didn't you hear me?! I said _leave me alone_!" Malfoy shouted, getting hysterical as he once again glared at Harry, peering up behind his fringe of pale eyelashes from his place on the floor.

            "No. I know how you must be feeling, and now that I know you're here, it just wouldn't be right to leave you to suffer by yourself," said Harry, gracefully tucking his feet beneath him as he settled on the floor next to his suffering classmate.

            Draco was now fixedly staring at the cracked, filthy tiles on the bathroom floor.

            Harry saw a single tear escape from one stormy eye to roll down its ivory path and hang, momentarily suspended, on the flawless jaw. It proceeded to plummet downward and sink into Draco's thick black robes.

             Harry didn't think about what to do next. He just did what came naturally.

            Draco Malfoy was very surprised to find himself enveloped in the comfort of Harry Potter's warm arms, caught up a soothing, reassuring hug from the other boy.

            Normally, Draco would have flung himself out of his current position and used a particularly nasty curse on the impertinent Potter, but these were not normal times.

            Instead, Draco merely accepted the kind gesture. He wasn't sure how, but he found his arms desperately clutching Harry closer to him, and his head resting brokenly against one welcoming shoulder as he finally stopped trying to fight the tears.

*************************************

            Dumbledore was sure that he must have misheard his granddaughter's words.

            "Pardon me?" he asked blankly, disbelieving his ears.

            "I believe I just said 'Draco Malfoy has just become the richest Wizard in the world'" was the amused reply.

            "That's impossible!" exclaimed Dumbledore.

            "I'd certainly hope not, considering the fact that it's true," said Doncenella condescendingly. 

            Dumbledore, his self-control once again slipping, glared vehemently at the girl, and just barely bit back an angry retort.

            "I've had just about enough of that behavior, young lady," he said instead.

            "I'm sure you have--but you're disregarding the fact that I don't really give a flying fuck," she responded loftily. 

            The already-considerable tension in the room mounted, and a charged silence took hold.

            "Is young Mr. Malfoy at least aware of this fact?" inquired Dumbledore after about a minute.

            "What--that I don't give a flying fuck?" asked the girl slyly, unable, or perhaps just unwilling, to resist slipping in one more annoyance into Dumbledore's life.

            The old man sighed.

            "No. You know what I was asking," he said.

            "Well, next time say what you mean and mean what you say, old man, since your next audience probably won't be as smart as I am," she declared.

            Dumbledore stifled the urge to roll his eyes.

            "If you'd just use your common sense I think you'd find the answer by yourself," she continued.

            "I very much doubt that the fact that Draconius would remain ignorant about his newfound overabundance of wealth for very long, as he'd find it out on his next visit to his Gringotts vault, so it seems only logical to assume that he's already been informed, wouldn't you say?" she said.

            "I suppose you're right," said Dumbledore grudgingly.

            "Of course I'm right," said the girl.

            "Now let's move on to other matters: where will in the castle will I be staying?" she continued.

            Dumbledore looked at his granddaughter and then rested his chin on his hand, leaning his elbows on his desktop. He seemed to be in great contemplation.

            "It's only a room, old man. No need to think so hard about it," she said after almost a minute of this.

            "Wha--? Oh, yes," said Dumbledore, clearing his throat and averting his eyes as he continued.

            "I've got an idea as to how you can publicly, instead of secretly, reside in the castle, but not invoke very much suspicion," he said.

            "But you're not going to like it." 


	6. A despicable scrap of a man

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I make any money off of it. Quote taken from Microsoft Encarta World English Dictionary.

Reminder: I've sort of given up on these things by now. It seems blatantly obvious that this story has slash, so if a homophobe disregards my reminders and reads my story anyway, that's really not my problem, as I've only made the slash factor apparent about five times already. Luckily, all you readers that have made it this far along are clearly open-minded, so I'm sure no one will mind if I just stop putting these reminders up after the first chapter. Thank you for reading this rant. =o)

Author's Note: I'd like to thank the following people for their spectacular input: **xanpetuk** (#shocked# wow, you actually like my original character? #cheers loudly# Incredible…thanks! I wanted to make her as unlike a Mary Sue as possible, and I'm happy to know that you think I've succeeded =o), **IcyEyes202** (I'm glad you think that this is original, and pleased to know that you like the Death Messenger idea. Thanks for the feedback =o), **Villain** (#astounded# I'm not sure if you are aware of this fact, but you are spectacularly kind. You've not only left many warmhearted and delightful reviews for this story, but for several of my other works as well. #beams# You know what? I think you deserve something for taking the time to give me your input, time and time again. Seeing as how my sending of letters of praise over the internet isn't really all that practical, I'd like to know if you'd like for me to write a fic of your choice instead. This means any couple in Harry Potter (het or slash, whichever you want). Okay then. Bye for now =o), **n/a **(#scuffs toe of tennis shoe on dirt and looks down embarrassedly with hands in pockets and a grin on face# You like my character too? Aww, shucks… =o), **Intangible Lollipop **(Ahh…what's in a name? Well in your case it's a paradox, it seems (and a very cool one at that). Well, there's some more cute Harry/Draco moments up ahead, so be on the lookout =o), and **Nmissi** (Yay! I'm glad to know that you think that my fic not only has a future ahead of it, but also consider it to be "brimming with possibilities." =o) I'm flattered (the subplots just seemed to worm themselves in here) =o)

One more Author's Note (oh the horror! =o): Anyone notice the new summary? Sorry if it's too cheesy. #ducks rotten vegetables thrown from booing crowd# Hey, a girl will do just about anything for more story attention. =o) Anyway, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry this chapter isn't longer. It wasn't going to be so brief…but I found the perfect place for a cliffhanger and couldn't resist the temptation to leave the story there. #ducks again as more unappetizing veggies are thrown# And one more thing…I know that the whole "new teacher" thing has been way overused in HP fandom, but I had to be cliché on this point, or else there wouldn't be any fun scenes where Doncenella gets to…never mind, don't want to give away future story events, don't ya know. #smiles brightly; bottle of ketchup hits me on the head; I am disgruntled# Hey, angry booing crowd, stop it! I repent! I repent!

"He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,

He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend."

--Thomas Gray, "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" (1751) 

            Doncenella looked at Dumbledore uneasily.

            "What do you mean 'I won't like it'?" she asked warily.

            "Anything would be a step up from living in a loony bin," she said.

            Dumbledore looked away and thought about how he could best present his proposition.

            "That's true enough," he finally said, pausing uncertainly before continuing.

            "So I suppose you won't object too much to what I have to say," he mused, trying to keep the comment casual.

            Doncenella tapped a foot impatiently on the floor and waited for her grandfather to finish his train of thought.

            "As you might be aware…Hogwarts has been having troubles during these last few years in acquiring itself a Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. In fact, this year's DADA instructor, Professor McAllister, resigned just last week. One of our other teachers, Professor Snape, has been so kind as to take over this responsibility, in addition to his other duties, during this time period, but this arrangement cannot continue for long," he began, earning himself an arched eyebrow from his grandchild.

            "Yeah, so what does that have to do with me?" she asked nonchalantly, interrupting.

            "Haven't you already figured it out?" he snapped, irritated, for his patience was fast wearing thin.

            Sudden realization overtook the girl, and her mouth dropped open in surprise.

            "You don't think--?! You can't be serious--?! Me?! No. _No_. I am _not_ teaching a bunch of snot-nosed brats how to--! No. Just--no. Definitely not. You're out of your mind!" she exclaimed, suddenly lacking the ability to speak coherently.

            Dumbledore gave her a look that clearly indicated that she certainly wasn't someone who should be speaking of another's dubious state of mind, but said, as kindly as he could, "Come on, child, it's not that bad."

            "Anything would be a step up-- you said that much yourself," he continued.

            She glared at him for using her own words against her, but it soon faded into apprehension again.

            "But--teaching?" she asked, disbelieving.

            "Teach--teaching _people_?" she squeaked.

            "That's generally the case, yes," said Dumbledore.

            "But…what if I have one of my episodes during class time? What if I have a Vision while there are people present? What--what if--" she began, incredulous. 

            "All those things can be dealt with," cut in Dumbledore, putting a stop to the girl's protests and anxious "what if" scenarios.

            "If you feel an…episode or anything…unusual…coming on, exit the classroom immediately. The only thing you'll have to worry about will be your class lessons…for the most part," he said.

            Doncenella looked bewildered.

            "I haven't even graduated from anyplace, or had any proper schooling! I'm only seventeen, for Merlin's sake!" she burst out.

            "Listen," Dumbledore began.

            "Most people don't want this job, I'll admit that. This past week, I even thought I might have to hand it over to the one man who does, despite the fact that his services are greatly needed elsewhere. But now you're here, and, in addition to being an ideal cover, your taking over of this position would also serve to temporarily eliminate a persistent problem in Hogwarts, and greatly benefit the students here. Though I am aware of your…complications, your age and additional magical… abilities… included, I have the greatest faith in your ability to teach my students proper defense methods against the Dark Arts. Am I mistaken in that assumption?" he said.

            "No," she spat.

            "You don't spend seven years in the company of the Dark Lord without learning a thing or two about the Dark Arts," she said.

            "Plus, despite what you might believe, I didn't spend all my time in the Crazy House wallowing in self-pity. I also went into rages and, more often than not, read books from the library," she added.

            "I'm sure you did," said Dumbledore easily, more confident now that she appeared to be seriously thinking the matter over.

            There was a silence.

            "It takes a despicable scrap of a man to think of his own gain in another's time of need, old man," she said absently, the statement lacking most of her usual biting edge.

            "True…though of course you realize that I'm only thinking of the well-being of yourself and the students of this school," he replied.

            "Humph," was the response as she snorted in disbelief, still thinking over the pros and cons of the offer.

            "Fine," she said, a short while later.

            It was now or never.

            "I accept."

********************************************

            "You realize that I'll kill you if you ever tell anyone about this," said Draco dispassionately, a few minutes after his weeping had subsided. His voice was muffled as he spoke into the curve of Harry's left shoulder.

            "Yes," responded Harry soothingly as he rubbed small, lazy circles onto the other boy's upper back with his fingertips and gently smoothed down flyaway strands of soft blonde.

            "I hate you," said Draco a few seconds later, though the statement was as strangely empty of malice as its successor.

            "Sure, same here," said Harry amiably enough as he continued holding Draco close against him.

            "Why are you doing this?" asked Draco, still leaning against the warmth of Harry's chest.

            "Doing what?" asked Harry, confused.

            "This," said Draco, pulling away just enough to look the Gryffindor seeker in the eye, a scant few inches separating their faces.

            "Helping me," he explained.

            Harry didn't know what to say.

            _What am I supposed to do? _Harry wondered. _Spill out mournful details from my life with the Dursleys? Wow him with my adventures with the dust bunnies in the closet under the stairs? Woo him with tales of how I spent day huddled in a ball in the darkness, with a glass of water and a piece of bread for company, if I was lucky? I think not. _

            Harry was not yet ready to divulge those certain details to the object of his unsettled emotions. 

            While he considered it normal and completely reasonable for a boy in Malfoy's position to break down and cry like that, he did not consider himself to be quite so bad off. It would be inappropriate to tell his own sob story at a moment like this, he wagered, as he'd dealt quite nicely for over sixteen years with his lot without going to pieces over it. It was all he'd ever known.

            So what to say?

            "I just felt like it," he said, uncomfortable with having to provide a reason for his aid. 

            After all, he wasn't really lying; he just wasn't telling the whole truth. Oh, Hell, he knew he was being rather deceitful, but Malfoy didn't need a more detailed reason than that, as such an in-depth explanation as that would require Harry to discuss things he'd already decided never to share.

            The burden was his.

            Draco seemed to sense Harry's desperation for the matter to be dropped, and, for once in his life, voluntarily obliged another and succumbed to those wishes. He seemed, at the moment, to be content with Harry's vague reasoning, and let the matter be.

            Draco resolutely settled back into his previous position in Harry's arms, and the comforting…dare I say _tender_…ministrations resumed as the two boys held each other in simple companionability on Moaning Myrtle's bathroom floor.

            That's how a chattering group of female Hufflepuff third years found them when they walked in a few minutes later.


End file.
